


Ran to the Devil

by GVSpurlock



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Art theft and Carnival, Character Study, Gen, Hat loss, Some Humor, Stitches, Swearing, The Post Office has a Mailroom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:29:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GVSpurlock/pseuds/GVSpurlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The team has a rough day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ran to the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Title from my beloved Nina's "Sinnerman."

"I don't like it," Ressler said, crossing his arms aggressively.  

The bare quirk of an eyebrow indicated that Red had bothered to listen, but no acknowledgement was forthcoming as all eyes turned to A.D. Cooper. 

Cooper's face was neutral. The total lack of reaction to Red's madcap scheme indicated to Liz that he, too, "didn't like it." She would third that motion, but thought they would probably go through with it anyway.

They usually did.

 

* * *

They did. 

 

* * *

Liz only needed four stitches. Ressler needed forty-eight. 

Red lost his hat. 

Dembe had a lot of blood spattered on his jacket, but none of it was his. He didn't seem to notice when the nurse gave him a wide berth. 

Luli typed rapidly on her Blackberry, keeping an eye on Meera who was grimacing her way through a truly heinous cup of coffee.

When they finally made their way back to The Post Office, Cooper gave Meera a sympathetic look before dismissing them all with extreme prejudice. 

The A.D.'s office was not particularly plush, but it was tidy under the impending avalanche of paperwork. Even though it was the 21st century and he owned a miracle of technology commonly known as a tablet, he still had to sign a hundred forms in goddamned triplicate. 

Reddington was clearly a danger to himself and others. Mostly Cooper's marriage. And Liz's. But not Ressler's. Because Ressler was a walking hard-on with forty-eight fresh stitches on his ass. Not that Cooper concerned himself with his agents' business, but Ressler's inability to get a date was such public knowledge that even the mailroom intern knew about it. The intern who started the day before yesterday. He was a good kid. Probably deserved a better gig than this madhouse. 

 

* * *

Liz trudged wearily up the six, no, shit, seven, steps to the door of her brownstone. Tears of frustration welled up as she fumbled for her keys. 

Rule #1 of carrying a purse: it doesn't matter how big or small your bag is. When you're looking for something, it's bottomless. 

The bag was a particular favorite, purchased with her first paycheck as an officer of the law. It was soft and slouchy and full of pockets. Too many goddamned pockets. Liz let her head fall into the door. 

It unlocked with a 'snick' and Tom stood in the doorway, shirtless and wearing green pajama bottoms. He looked a little disheveled, with his glasses not quite seated, hair mussed, abdominal scar pink and puffy. 

She could almost hear Red saying "Attractive, but treacherous" as she looked him over. He was as handsome as ever (such gentle eyes) and when he smiled and reached for her, she went to him. 

God, the embrace felt good. But the profiler in her head refused to allow the Little Girl Lost to forget about their burdensome secret for more than a moment.

Tracing the line of his collarbone, Liz thought that it was nice. But it wasn't real.

Stitches were real. Stubbed toes were real. Red's concern for her, well, jury was out on that one. But Tom... Tom was perfect, Tom was kind, and Tom had a small fortune in cash, passports, and illegal weaponry stashed under their dining room floor.

Fuck her life. Sideways.

 

* * *

Red vastly preferred The Jefferson's intimate grandeur to the modernity of the W, but you can't have everything.

Where would you put it?

The suite was clean and spacious, if not particularly elegant. The pillow dwarfing the bed brought to mind the outrageously purple headdresses of the samba dancers who covered for the Monet getaway. Art theft and Carnival. God, life had been sweet. "Masterminded by specialists," the BBC had reported breathlessly.

They didn't know the half of it.

 

* * *

Dembe occupied less space than the breadth of his shoulders indicated he should. Luli called him the strong and silent type. She was a master of understatement. But he was feeling a little easier in his own skin since Campo's overdue demise. 

He liked the hotel. The staff had a very distinctive look to them (posh, disinterested, underfed), which meant few contract killers could pull off the tailored uniform. Made life a bit easier. And tonight, with dried blood encrusting the zipper of his butter-soft leather jacket, easier was okay. He could watch the door with one eye instead of both.

As he cleaned his guns, jacket, and boots, Dembe breathed methodically and consciously released the day's adrenaline. Gone was the spike of fear from the sight of Raymond's hat flying off after a right hook to the chin. Hard-headed bastard returned the punch with a passionless gutshot that Keen hadn't noticed in the firefight with the other goons. Dembe wasn't about to enlighten her.

 

* * *

"I was always good with numbers," Luli informed Meera, warming her hands around a cup of peppermint tea. 

Meera ripped open a packet of sugar with her teeth, gingerly removing the paper from her lips, before stirring it into the vastly superior coffee before her.

"When I was a kid, my lemonade stands invariably turned a profit. Made some good investments with my minimum wage student job. Eventually did a double major in CompSci and finance."

"You dropped out your junior year after hacking Cowen Group servers and stealing three quarters of a million dollars," Meera volunteered mildly.

"No kidding," Luli said, eyebrows raised. Butter wouldn't have melted in her mouth. 

"No kidding," Meera agreed, taking a slow sip of her coffee.

* * *

Ressler struck out with the pretty nurse, the slightly less pretty nurse, and the significantly less pretty nurse. He lay on his stomach, disheartened, feeling every one of the forty-eight stitches in his ass. Reddington hadn't stopped smirking while he was being stitched back together even as he made doe eyes at Elizabeth fucking Keen. 

His life had gone to hell in a handbasket since that bastard showed up demanding an ivory tower and the maiden fair. Since when did the villain of the piece get to have his happy ending with a nice chianti? 

Ressler was a by-the-book kind of guy and this whole fucked-up enterprise was as _off_ -the-books as you could possibly get. He wasn't entirely convinced it was legal. Hell, he was pretty sure it was _il_ legal. 

But damned if it wasn't the most effective team he'd ever had the piss-poor luck to work with. So the next time Reddington sends them after some no-name schmuck with a higher body count than Bundy, they'll go running. 


End file.
